


For Thy Principles

by Chocolatepot



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Delirium, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Major Illness, Past Child Abuse, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:40:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28265538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocolatepot/pseuds/Chocolatepot
Summary: The nohecharei of Edrehasivar VII were unparalleled in their defense of his person, but there were limits to even their prowess. When Maia first developed the fever, Cala quickly determined that it was not the end result of a magically-based assassination attempt – and from there it had to be left to the court physicians.Maia falls ill, and Csethiro protects him as best she can.
Relationships: Csethiro Ceredin/Maia Drazhar
Comments: 13
Kudos: 84
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	For Thy Principles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [egelantier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egelantier/gifts).



The nohecharei of Edrehasivar VII were unparalleled in their defense of his person, but there were limits to even their prowess. When Maia first developed the fever, Cala quickly determined that it was not the end result of a magically-based assassination attempt – and from there it had to be left to the court physicians.

He should never have been allowed to travel to the west while the sickness was raging there, Csethiro thought bitterly, although it was not, strictly speaking, possible for anyone to forbid the emperor from doing as he pleased. But she had the best claim to being able to do so, through their bonds of affection, yet she had found herself powerless to do so. Or rather, she had been unwilling, because Maia’s sympathy for his people was one of the things she loved most about him, and his determination to visit the elves who were dealing with this mysterious disease had been so earnest. Not only could he better understand how to help them – how to send assistance, how to give direct aid that could not be siphoned off by corrupt officials or aristocrats – but his presence could make others more aware of the plight of the sick. It was all too common for those at court to treat illness in the hinterlands as an unfortunate drain on their own resources, a _problem_ that affected numbers but not people.

Precautions _had_ been taken, but there was only so much that could be done in this situation. And then, just one day after speaking to the mother of a dying child, he woke up with aches in his body (he of course never complained of them, but his wife could see it in the ginger way that he moved); by the end of the day, he was hot and nauseated, his grey skin tinged with a little green. The next day he was unable to rise from his bed, and now – 

Now he was delirious as he neared the crisis point. He sweated through his bedclothes and shivered under blankets, writhing in discomfort. When finally pressed, the physicians admitted to the zhasan that it was just as likely that he would die as that he would live.

“You _must_ continue to try every treatment you can conceive,” she had insisted, and they bowed and returned to their herbal stores, their distilleries.

She should have left it to them and to their assistants in order to protect herself, should have begun to act as a regent for the empire, but Csethiro could not. She dressed herself in a set of plain linen robes, her hair divested of all tashin sticks and combs, and dismissed the nurses: she would stay by her husband’s bedside until he was well again. This was taken as touching, if un-imperial, devotion, she could tell – but she had another motive as well. No one but herself and Maia’s nohecharei knew of the terrors that sometimes visited him when he slept, the nightmares that brought back dark and frightening events of his past, from which his subconscious had many to choose. If she could help it, nobody else would learn of them.

Cala and Beshelar sat on either side of the door, their faces impassive but their fists clenched on their knees. If this threat had been physical, they would have thrown themselves between it and their emperor without a second thought, but there was no defense they could make here. Csethiro sat on the bed, patting Maia’s forehead and lips with a damp cloth to cool them and get just a little water into him, just enough for him to keep it down.

His breath rasped, and after he feebly tried to shake her off, his eyes opened. They did not see her, however – they looked past her shoulder, pupils dilated. “No,” he said in a strangled voice. “No, please, I’m sorry …” He squirmed away from her hands as though they were less than gentle. “I didn’t mean to break it …”

It was Setheris, then, that he was seeing. How many times had she imagined running the man through with her sword? But she never could: Maia would not like it. Maia was so determined to be good all the time, to be just and fair, and as much as she adored that about him, it really was a shame.

“It’s all right,” she said; “Maia, it’s me, it’s Csethiro. Thou art safe, thou art –” She wanted to say _well_ , as she usually did, but it would be a lie, and it stuck in her throat. “I am here.”

His right hand came up to protect his head from the blows that only existed in his past, and she took it with her left, diverting it up to her face so she could press the back of it forcefully with her cheek. With her right, she dipped the cloth into the basin on the nightstand and squeezed it lightly, then brought it back to his face. She was able to press some droplets between his panting lips, but the rest had to be gently dabbed here and there on his burning skin.

“I’m sorry …”

She shushed him gently. “Thou hast nothing to apologize for, dearest.”

It felt like she was doing nothing, like none of her efforts were having any effect. Maia became more agitated, more pained, tears actually trickling down the sides of his face to the pillows below. Csethiro grimly held on, refreshing and refreshing the cloth as her own eyes burned with a need for sleep. It was more and more difficult to watch her husband go through his own private hell in a delirious memory, but she – and the nohecharei somewhere behind her – had no choice. There was nothing else that she could do except to keep clutching at his hand and murmuring that she was with him, it was a dream, and he would never ever be hurt like that again.

“Please, please,” she found herself begging after hours of this torture for both of them. “ _Please_ , Maia, come back to me.”

It was just then that he fell still, and for a long, horrified moment, she thought that the worst had come. “My dearest?” she whispered in a tremulous tone that she would have previously never believed herself capable of.

“My love?” came the response, if faintly, and Csethiro almost collapsed onto Maia’s prone body. The hand clutched in hers pressed back feebly and she loosened her grip, just enough that he was able to slip his hand around to caress her cheek himself. From their seats by the door, Cala and Beshelar rushed forward to ensure for themselves that the emperor still lived, then held back out of respect as Csethiro – shamefully, and most unlike herself – burst into tears. “My love, I am so, so sorry.”

“And well shouldst thou be!” She did not mean to cry out at him mere moments after his fever broke, but she held more emotions than she could contain. “Thou hast very nearly lost thy life for thy principles of good rulership.”

“But was saved through thy ministrations.” Maia’s face was still a greyish-green and he still lacked the strength to lift his head, but he smiled peacefully.

“Thou art fortunate,” she told him. “I have thought that I should be very suited to the mourning robes of a zhasanai.” He was able to muster a breathless little laugh, and the rest of the fear and anguish flowed out of her, leaving her feeling as brittle as a leaf that was just about to fall. An apt simile, she thought madly, as she began to drop; Beshelar caught her, and maneuvered her onto the bed beside her husband. “We thank you,” she said, her voice a little tremulous.

Maia struggled beside her, and both she and Cala put out a hand to stop him from trying to rise. “Peace, Maia,” she said, sounding a little more like her old self. “We must both rest now.” He obeyed, and she felt his head nestle into the space between her neck and shoulder before she finally drifted off into a restful sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Maia in peril! Loved your prompts. I love TGE, but I’ve always wished there was more for Csethiro to do; she _wants_ to defend him, but she never gets a shot! Yet I was also drawn to show her protecting him in a way that’s different from her desire to duel Shevean, and in a way, it’s kind of a mutual hurt/comfort, which I hope suits.
> 
> There is also some inspiration here from Gen and Irene’s dynamic in the Queen’s Thief series, if you’ve read it. (If you haven’t, I think it goes very well with TGE – if you like one, I suspect you’ll like the other.)


End file.
